Cui Bono
by Heretherebeangst
Summary: An AU in which one casual, insignificant decision changes the course of Sharon Raydor's entire life. Some things are exactly the same, like the unexpected appearance of a teenage boy in her life, while other things, like her profession, are very different. Primarily Mothership, but with a few other familiar faces.


_A/N: Well I finally got this started. I really hope it's worth the wait. A few things before we begin. This AU depicts a divergence that occurs because of a seemingly insignificant decision Sharon makes as a young adult [more on that later]. Certain things remain exactly the same: certain events and conversations unfold almost exactly as they did in the canon timeline. Other things don't happen at all or in a completely different way. Some people made the same choices, others didn't. For the purposes of the story so far, you should know that Stroh is not on anyone's radar. Not yet, anyway. To be clear: Everything we know [or think we know] happened to Sharon before she was about thirty remains the same. We begin around the same time period as the MC pilot._

**Cui Bono**

**Chapter I**

**Persona Non Grata**

_Persona non grata: a person who is not wanted; an unwelcome visitor or resident._

_In law, __a person who is officially considered unwelcome by a host country in which they are residing in a diplomatic capacity._

LA was so unbelievably hot in July. Sharon had forgotten that part. The heat would sear into your skin, burning before you realized it, sweat leaking out everywhere. It was a sticky and uncomfortable and red heat, and she had forgotten how much she hated it.

It had been twenty years since Sharon Raydor had lived in Los Angeles full-time. She had had kids at home, one still small enough to swing up onto her hip, another who still reached for her hand when they walked. It had been a different time; in some ways a lifetime ago, in others only yesterday.

As Sharon passed through the glass doors of the courthouse, she let out a sigh of relief when the blast of air conditioning washed over her.

But she was not in any position to complain about the heat. Or anything about this new job, frankly. Not when she had all but begged the Attorney General himself for a transfer somewhere she might get to prosecute actual criminals rather than spend her days second-guessing every prosecutor in the state of California. Sharon had asked for this.

She was not in a position to reject this particular opportunity.

That being said, Sharon thought as she boarded the elevator alone, she had not imagined that she would end up here, heading the office that she had spent the last two years combing through on a minute level.

But here she was. Her first day in an entirely new world.

She walked in with purpose, her case in one hand as her heels clicked across the tile of the room, making a beeline for the glassed-in office at the back of the room. Sharon looked around casually at the familiar cubicles. They were just as they had been when she had been here a few months before in the process of her audit. Five in all, though only three of them occupied at the moment. Sharon stepped into the empty office in the back for a moment, placing her briefcase on the desk and looking around her new office carefully before stepping back out.

Three pairs of eyes were staring at her wordlessly. Andrea Hobbs she knew well. That whole Turell Baylor fiasco had rather strained civility, but Sharon thought things had been alright between them in the end. Judging by Hobbs' look of disgust, however, Sharon may have been overly optimistic on that point.

The second face, Sharon didn't know. The woman was young, dark-skinned, and looked curious rather than mistrusting, which could bode well for Sharon.

The third pair of eyes she knew as well, though not as well as Andrea Hobbs. They belonged to a man, about six feet tall with close-cropped hair and a sharp and angular body, accentuated by his tendency to wear very sharply cut suits. Carlos Rivera was about thirty-five and had been in the DA's Major Crimes office for as long as Sharon had been familiar with it, about five years. Not long after they had initially met, Sharon had nearly pushed him out of the job. To be fair, the evidence had initially pointed to Rivera suppressing evidence. And she had figured it all out before it was too late. But Sharon was not surprised to see the rather murderous expression on his face as she stepped out of the office again, pulling the door bearing a brand-new placard that read _Assistant District Attorney Sharon Raydor_ closed behind her.

"Any idea when our final two members might be joining us?" Sharon asked the room at last. "I thought we might gather for a little while, make sure everyone's on the same page-"

"They're in court. Prosecuting criminals." Andrea Hobbs said rather curtly, getting to her feet and checking her watch. " Which is where I'm supposed to be, too." She turned and left without another word.

Rivera turned his chair from her without speaking and hunched over his desk.

The young woman who remained smiled brightly and stepped forward, hand extended.

"I'm Amy Sykes. Really looking forward to working with you. I've heard really great things."

Sharon shook her hand briefly, trying to decide if there was any sarcasm there. It seemed not.

"Exciting day, huh?" Amy looked genuinely thrilled in that way that Sharon had seen in puppies enthusiastic even as a small child pulls their ears. "It's my first day, too."

Sharon gave a noncommittal hum as the phone at Rivera's desk began to ring. He answered it and began to speak.

"Well it's very nice to meet you, Amy," Sharon said with a smile, hoping to escape back to her empty office. Terrifying and frustrating as the prospect of sitting in her office with absolutely no idea what the hell she was doing might be, she just could not take this sort of exuberant enthusiasm first thing in the morning.

"Well, congratulations, on the job, ma'am. Well deserved, so I hear."

Before Sharon could do more than smile and blink a little in surprise, Rivera's phone call suddenly became much less private.

"Well what the hell are we supposed to do? That's your job!"

Sharon laid a hand softly on Rivera's shoulder as he grew agitated, motioning for him to hand her the receiver when he turned. He seemed reluctant, but eventually passed her the call.

"This is ADA Raydor, what can I do for you?"

There was a long pause on the other end. Then-

"Raydor? What the hell are you doin' in LA again?"

Sharon smiled indulgently.

"Nice to hear from you too, Chief Johnson. I work here now. What seems to be the problem here?"

"Oh-well. I was looking for Hobbs…"

Sharon leaned against the desk slightly, Rivera and Sykes watching her closely.

"She's not in the office at the moment. As her superior, I'm sure I can handle whatever issue you have."

There was another long pause.

"Well, we've got this witness from Hobbs' case, he's been in the hospital since the incident the other night, but they're ready to release him, and he's being difficult about the housing we've arranged for him."

"I see," Sharon said carefully. "And what was this incident?" She listened attentively as Chief Johnson told her a rather scary tale of a young man-no, really not much more than a boy-nearly being murdered at the hands of a human trafficker-turned serial killer, which he somehow escaped only to be attacked again the following night during a completely blown police sting operation.

Reminding herself that it was no longer her job to draw attention to the problematic way the entire 'incident' had been handled, she eventually heard herself agreeing to go down to the hospital to talk to the boy.

* * *

Sharon hated hospitals. They were cold and unfeeling, the fluorescent lights seeming to sneak in and burn away the nerve endings of her very soul. There were those, including her new and rather hostile co-workers, who might think that she had lost all ability to feel long ago. The reality, of course, was quite different. There was a difference, Sharon knew, between professional distance in order to maintain personal boundaries and the sort of cold unfeeling disinterest of which she was so often accused. Chilly and unrelenting she might be on the surface, but she still shivered on the threshold of the lobby.

She maneuvered the maze of swinging doors and winding nondescript hallways, quickly and efficiently making her way up to the fourth floor. She stopped short just outside her destination, room 4628. Looking through the window into the room, her mouth opened slightly in surprise. _He's just a kid,_ she thought incredulously.

He looked to be about fifteen or sixteen, rather scrawny and drawn in the hospital bed just on the other side of the door. He seemed to be flipping rather impatiently through channels on the tv, rolling his eyes in displeasure every now and then. His shaggy dark blond hair did not quite hide the cuts and bruises marring the left side of his face. His right leg was encased in a long cast, suspended slightly above the bed, and his left hand was bandaged.

Finally pushing the door open, Sharon stepped inside and the boy looked away from the television.

"Good afternoon, Russell," she said softly, consulting the file she had in her hands briefly. "I'.m Assistant District Attorney Sh—"

"Look, Lady, it's Rusty," he cut in before she could finish. "And unless you have a burger or my Mother with you, I don't care."

She pulled a chair up next to the bed and sat down slowly. "I think a burger can be arranged. I understand they're releasing you later this afternoon. I'll see what I can do." Removing a pen and pad from her case, she looked up at him and continued, "as for your Mother—can you tell me how to contact her?"

He gave her a sulky look before replying, "Do you think I would be here if I knew that? Look. She's gone. She's been gone for a long time. And I just need you to find her, okay?" He sighed dramatically. "Like, don't you guys talk to each other _at all_? I already told that police lady and the other lawyer lady the whole thing. So can you just do your job? I mean, it's not like I almost got murdered yesterday." He gasped in sarcastic, would-be realization. "Oh _wait. _I did."

Sharon sighed heavily, pulling her glasses down her face and into her lap."Rusty," she began again, "I am an attorney, not a police officer. My job here is to make sure justice is served." She set the pad and pen aside and looked at him intently. "To that end, I need to find a safe place for you to stay until the trial."

"Then find my Mom!"

Sharon inhaled deeply. "I will do my best to find your Mother, Rusty. But we need to find somewhere safe today."

He rolled his eyes. She chose to ignore it.

"Your social worker has made arrangements for a good family to pick you up this afternoon—"

"Nuh-uh, lady! I'm not staying anywhere that isn't with my Mom!"

Replacing her glasses as she adopted a deadly quiet tone edged with irritation, her eyes bored into his. "That is not an available option right now, Rusty. Would you rather a group home or a cell in detention? Because that can be arranged."

Sharon waited a beat while he glowered at her. When he closed his mouth and looked away without further comment, Sharon continued, "One of my deputies will be in touch to discuss the trial." She removed several documents and placed them before him. "We need you to sign this statement about the incident, and also this immunity agreement."

Rusty huffed dramatically again, but took the pen from her and signed.

Sharon gathered the forms and the copy of his file as she got to her feet and the young man continued to glare at her. "Alright, we're done." She left her card on the table as she turned away. "Be—Well, stay safe, Rusty."

She had already turned to the door when Rusty's sarcastic reply came.

"Oh, yeah, sure I will."

* * *

It was less than a week later when he appeared in her office with no explanation, only a sullen glare from his still rather worse-for-wear face.

"Hello there, Rusty. What are you doing here?" She shot a glance out of the glass wall, wondering why no one had mentioned the teenage boy sitting in her office. Amy was in court, presumably; all she got in reply were turned backs and stony stares. An answer of sorts, she supposed.

"You cannot send me back to that house," Rusty began in a rush, adamantly. "They are like, the worst people ever. They have all these rules about _everything_. Like what I can eat. And when I have to go to bed. And what I can watch on T.V. Like seriously?! I'm not staying with them. And you can't make me."

Sharon held up one hand to silence him as she picked up the phone and dialed the number for her research clerk down the hall. Surprisingly, Rusty quieted for a moment.

"Billy? Good Morning. Could you pull the file for Russell Beck and bring it over here please? No, not the original. Just the broad strokes. Thank you." She hung up and looked at Rusty again.

"So you were tortured?"

Rusty glared at her, but did not answer. Finally, he said accusingly, "Are you even looking for my mother?"

She leaned forward and removed her glasses. "You know, finding people is not really my area of expertise. But I have assurances from Chief Johnson that she is doing everything she can. But my job _is_ to make sure you have a safe place to stay until DDA Hobbs takes this to trial. And right now, that place is with your foster family."

At her words, Rusty began to shake his head again, and Sharon's office door opened. Her research clerk entered with a small stack of paper, holding it out to her. She took it from him, smiling.

"Thank you, Billy." She gestured at Rusty. "This is Rusty. Do you think you could help him find a cup of tea or maybe a soda if he'd prefer and sit with him while I find someone to take him home?"

Billy did not have time to do more than nod and hold out a hand to Rusty before the latter began shouting in protest, one of his crutches smacking poor Billy's outstretched hand in his distress.

"NO! You cannot send me back there! I hate it. I'll just run away again and then what about your stupid trial. You can't make me!"

Giving poor Billy, who had now backed away from Rusty in self-preservation, an apologetic look, Sharon dropped the quiet accommodating tone. It was not getting them anywhere.

"Now you listen here, _right now._ The next place I send you will have locks on the doors and bars on the windows. Do you want to spend the next **two years** in a juvenile detention center? _Keep. Talking._"

Silence reigned, both inside her office and outside it. She could see several of her DDAs eyeing her through the glass in shock and surprise.

Even Billy, young and relatively unflappable as he had seemed to her so far, seemed rather taken aback by her outburst.

But it seemed to have had the desired effect. Rusty did not utter another word.

"Now you're going to go with Billy and _behave yourself_ until I find a solution that both of us can live with here."

And Billy and Rusty left at last, Sharon's only company a dull ache behind her eyes and the printed file Billy had left for her.

Suddenly, Sharon's day became much more about finding a suitable place for Rusty to live and much less about the case she had in court that afternoon. It was not a big case, thankfully. But it would be her first time in court for something of this nature in years. And her first time in an L.A. county court in over a decade.

There were days, particularly in the week since she had started this new job, that Sharon legitimately wondered how she had gotten here. She had started out with such different, optimistic goals about saving people from bad things. And somehow that had all gotten lost. Maybe if she had stayed on the force, things would have turned out differently. All those events that had left her so detested by her new co-workers would have unfolded differently. Maybe she would not have spent all those years in Sacramento helping people from afar and generally antagonizing every prosecutor in the state.

But no. She could not have stayed on the force, not when that paralyzing image, the memory of what had almost happened dogged her every step for the last twenty years.

It was strange, how her entire life seemed to spin on this one second twenty years ago when she had left a drunken Jack on the sofa in their old house so she could shower. The image that greeted her when she emerged into the hallway fifteen minutes later would never leave her.

Jack, swaying unsteadily in the doorway to Ricky and Emily's room, her service revolver shining in his hand.

Sharon never knew how he had gotten to it in his inebriated state. Somehow he had gotten to her car while she was upstairs. Perhaps he had not been as drunk as he seemed, or he had mastered the art of functioning while drunk. Afterwards, Jack had not remembered the incident at all, of course. To this day, he claimed that she must have exaggerated the entire event.

Moments after she had come upon him in the doorway, he stumbled, and the gun had gone off not five feet from her sleeping children. The bullet had glanced across Jack's face before embedding itself in the wall behind him.

And Sharon knew now, twenty years later, as well as she had then, that she could not help people with a gun at her hip. Not anymore. So she ran.

A week later she and her young kids had found themselves in a new city with a new and different futures ahead of them. But Sharon had continued to run from that moment. She had been running for decades. Until she realized that the thing she was trying to run from always came along for the ride.

Sharon's desk phone rang, pulling her gratefully back to the present.

"Raydor."

"Good afternoon, ma'am. This is Cynthia Shaw from DCFS, returning your call about Russell?"

Sharon checked her watch before replying. She had fifteen minutes to get down to court for her sentencing hearing.

"I believe he prefers Rusty. Thank you for returning my call. I was hoping we could discuss an alternate placement for him. The current placement seems unsatisfactory."

She held the phone to her face with her shoulder as she stood and began gathering her paperwork and files for her case. The social worker's voice rose over the shuffle, pressed to her ear.

"Well at this time, that foster family won't take him back and with his history as a runaway, I'm not sure I could find any family to take him for the time being. I think his best bet is a group home or someone willing to take him on despite his history. Which I haven't been able to find."

Sharon sighed, shifting the phone against her face. Snarky and contrary as that young man might be, all he really seemed to want was his family. Her mind flashed on that pleading look in his eyes when she had sent him off with Billy. Whatever he tried to pretend, Rusty was not one of those hardened street kids he seemed to want to be. He just wanted someone to care. And she was not sure that she could stand by and watch while some group home beat that goodness out of him.

Before she could really think or say anything else, she heard herself say, "I'll take him."

There was a pause on the other end.

"Excuse me?"

Sharon smiled to herself. This was it, right here. The good she had been trying to do since she gave up her gun and badge so long ago. Saving people from bad things. She liked that.

"I'm certified for emergency care. Or I was, back in Sacramento. So I'll take him. I have court just now, but Rusty and I will come by your office as soon as I'm finished here and sort out the particulars. Thank you."

And she hurried off without waiting for a response.

* * *

"Sharon Raydor for The People, your Honor. We believe that any sentence below ten years in maximum would be an insult to the families of the victims of Mr. Lang's crimes." She pulled a stack of glossy photos from the file before her and handed them to the bailiff as she continued, "Edward Lang confessed and was found guilty of the premeditated first-degree murder of five women."

The courtroom door behind her opened, and from the corner of her eye, she saw Billy enter with Rusty in tow. Billy pushed Rusty into a seat in the back before waving and departing, speaking with one of the officers at the door before slipping out.

"Your honor," Sharon continued intently, "The People ask for ten years for each count, fifty years total, with no possibility of parole."

As expected, the defense counsel was on his feet before she had even finished.

"Your honor! That is punitive in the extreme. Given my client's advanced age and deteriorating health, we're asking for compassionate release. He has been imprisoned without bail since his arrest nearly two years ago. He is in no position to hurt anyone."

Judge Franks, a woman about Sharon's age with short cropped grey hair and a pointed face looked over her glasses at everyone. "I'm inclined to agree with The People, Mr. James." The judge's eyes drifted down to the victim photos spread before her. "But let's hear what everyone has to say, first. I'll hear about victim impact."

Sharon took a seat as the families of the victims stood behind her, each taking a turn to speak. She hated that she had ended up doing this hearing when she had not done the initial prosecution, but here they were. Why the defense had elected for a sentence from the bench was beyond her, but she was not complaining. She glanced back at Rusty now and again, hoping this hearing would not go beyond an hour or so. He was remaining quiet, but she was willing to bet he was already plotting an escape. And he looked bored out of his mind, for which she could not really fault him.

Twenty minutes later, the defense had trotted out doctor after doctor to describe the feeble health of eighty-year-old Edward Lang, though Mr. Lang himself seemed able to walk and talk without difficulty, Sharon noticed.

She still had a final card to play as the last doctor was excused.

"Well, I'm about ready to rule, unless either parties have anything to add?"

Sharon got to her feet. "We have one final exhibit, your honor." She strode over to an easel standing quite close to Lang and turned the large poster sitting on it, so it faced out. Magnified five-fold, it depicted the mass grave site where the police had uncovered Lang's five victims. Five bodies, twisted and unceremoniously tossed one on top of the other, massive injuries visible.

The hungry look everyone caught on Lang's face told Sharon all she needed to know.

She had won.

* * *

Rusty was silent in the passenger seat after they left Cynthia's office. Whether he was sulking or just did not have anything to say, Sharon could not tell. She pulled into the garage beneath her new condo and turned off the car.

"Here we are, Rusty. Do you need any help?"

"No."

The ride up to the apartment was equally silent. Finally, when Sharon had unlocked the door and they had passed through, she spoke.

"I'm still unpacking a bit, but the guest room down the hall is ready for you. We'll just have to find some clean sheets and anything else you might need. If you can't find something, we may have to do a little rummaging, but I'm sure we'll figure it out."

The condo really did not look too bad. The living room was almost completely box-free, and she knew that the bathroom and both of the bedrooms were unpacked. The kitchen was still a bit of a problem. She could tackle that tomorrow. This sort of thing was what weekends were made for.

Rusty was looking around slowly. He limped over to the sofa and lowered himself onto it heavily.

"Did you just move in or something?"

Sharon dropped her bag on the bar in the kitchen and pulled out a wineglass and a bottle. Those, she had certainly unpacked. She turned back towards Rusty at his question.

"What gave it away?"

She thought he almost smiled, but not quite.

"I hope you don't expect me to be all, like, grateful or whatever for you taking me in."

Sharon smiled to herself before turning back to Rusty, coming around the sofa and sitting in one of the swiveling chairs beside it.

"Good. Because I don't. It would be nice, of course, but I raised two teenagers of my own. I have an enormous capacity for ingratitude." She winked at him, trying to lighten the mood again.

Rusty did not follow her lead.

"So what are we supposed to call each other, anyway? Like, if I'm gonna be here for a while…" He trailed off.

Internally, Sharon relaxed slightly. It did not seem like he was going to bolt the moment she fell asleep. Well, not tonight, anyway.

Taking another brave stab at levity, She replied very seriously, "I think that you should call me ADA Raydor."

He did not seem to appreciate her sense of humor so far.

"Well then you can call me Mr. Beck."

Sharon smiled, letting that pass. "You know, there are not many people who call me by my first name."

"Well maybe that's why you live alone with a spare bedroom," Rusty snapped at her.

Sighing a little, she set her wine aside and leaned forward. "I live alone," she began quietly, "because my children are grown. The spare bedroom is for when they visit." She smiled. "But you may call me Sharon. How's that?"

Rusty stared at her in disbelief. "What, is that your idea of a joke?"

Her face faltered. Clearly, she had completely lost her touch. "What?"

"Sharon is _my mother's_ name!" He exclaimed rather venomously. "God, you aren't even looking for her, are you?!"

"Rusty, as you can see, I just got here. Give me some time. I will find your mother, I promise."

He seemed unconvinced. "Whatever. Where's your bathroom?"

She pointed down the hall as he limped to his feet. "Right down there."

Sharon stood as he retreated down the hallway slowly. "Rusty, I will find her," she called after him. She saw him skirt around a box on the floor outside her bedroom door, but he did not reply.


End file.
